Idle Hands are the Devil's Playthings
by DevinBourdain
Summary: It's the annual Stark Industries Charity Halloween Ball and Tony's spared no expense on all the Halloween treats, but something else has a few tricks it wants to impart on the team; turning a Halloween party into a night filled with monsters.
1. The Boogie Woogieman

_Disclaimer: The Avengers characters are not mine, just borrowed for this story._

 _Reviews are always welcome and appreciated_

 _This is a Halloween themed story I've had sitting on the computer for a couple of years but never seemed to remember to get it cleaned up until after Halloween had passed. This story is going to follow after No Rest for the Wicked and takes place before the events of **Captain America 2.**_

* * *

 **Idle Hands are the Devil's Playthings**

 **Part 1: Prologue (The Boogie Woogieman)**

"Thor," called Sif, quickening her pace to catch Thor's attention before he asked Heimdall to send him back to Misgard.

Thor glanced towards the door surprised. "Lady Sif, to what do I owe this unexpected goodbye?"

"Do you really have to leave?" she implored, "I fear there maybe something that requires your attention at home." The Warriors Three had dismissed the situation as mere coincidence and paranoia and while she wanted to agree with them, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more going on.

"I have promised Jane, but what has peeked your concern?" Matters of state had taken up much of Thor's time of late and though Jane hid her disappointment well, the god hated to have to disappoint her once again for trivial things; especially since they had been ships passing in the night when they were on the same planet.

"Lately there has been a certain level of..." she paused briefly, choosing her next words carefully, " _mischief_ afoot. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was Loki up to his usual games."

Thor's lip tightened at the mention of his deceased brother; Loki for all the evil he wrought, sacrificed for Asgard, for their family, for Thor, in the end. It was hard to forget the atrocities committed at Loki's hand but it was even harder not to mourn the family bonds that could have been once Loki saw the error of his ways.

"The people of Velmir had been plagued with such an unease when we visited, and now I fear it has followed us home to Asgard," warned Sif.

Thor's hand tightened around his hammer. "And has this _mischief_ brought any harm to anyone?"

"No. It is merely... inconvenient." There was nothing dangerous transpiring; things appearing and disappearing that could be explained as absentmindedness, voices that weren't there, tripping over items that hadn't been underfoot moments before.

The god of thunder shifted from foot to foot as he weighted the responsibility of his duties to both his kingdom and the people that mattered. He wouldn't be gone long and there was not actual evidence of threat to Asgard; surely the All father and the legendary warriors of Asgard could manage small inconveniences should the concern bear fruit. "Then I shall leave this mere inconvenience in your capable hands until I return from the Misgard celebration of Hallows Eve."

Sif nodded solemnly before taking her leave of Heimdall's tower. Thor was probably right; the matter warranted little concern. She would trust the future ruler of Asgard.

Thor took a step towards Heimdall but stopped short. A great unease swept over him and he turned sharply to see who was spying on him. All that lay behind him was the vastness of Asgard.

"Are you ready my prince?" asks Heimdall, noticing Thor's hesitance.

Sif's paranoia was brushing off on him. There was no one there and nothing to be concerned about; if someone was lurking in his shadow, the chosen son of Asgard would know. "Yes, indeed. Take me to Jane, please Heimdall."

* * *

A bright and blinding light poured onto the balcony at Stark Tower, growing in circumference and intensity. The sudden intrusion had caught Pepper off guard; her nose thoroughly stuck in the latest pile of paper work requiring her undivided attention. The sudden and unannounced appearance of Thor forced a surprised scream from Pott's lips as she knocked over the small breakfast table she had been sitting at. Tony had arranged a romantic brunch for the pair, for which he got full marks but in true Stark fashion was currently late for.

"Most people use doors, Thor," she panted, still trying to catch her breath. All of Tony's craziness had taught her to keep calm under pressure but she'd never lost her kneejerk reaction to surprises, even with the sudden influx of people and strangeness they brought to the tower.

"Most do not use cosmic travel as a means of getting here," he replied seriously, helping her stand the small aluminum table back on its feet; the last remains of brunch unsalvageable.

Pepper conceded, "That is true. The others have been in and out of the main living room all morning trying to get ready for the party tonight."

"And has Jane arrived yet?" he asked, trying to downplay his eagerness at being reunited with the scientist after several months apart.

"Not yet," apologised Pepper. "But her assistant Darcy said she would absolutely be here tonight, just rather late."

"Then I shall make myself ready for the night's festivities." He nodded in thanks before heading inside.

Pepper looked dejectedly at her unorganized stack of papers; half and hour's worth of work wasted. She glanced at her watch. Applying the Tony Stark rule of distracted brilliance she probably still had another two hours to get things straightened out before an exceedingly apologetic billionaire poked his head outside asking for forgiveness. She paused in shuffling her papers, overcome with an extreme sense of being watched. A quick glance around the balcony dismissed the idea of any other intruding Asgardians or other team members, allowing Pepper to get back to work.


	2. Monster Mash

**Part 2: Monster Mash**

Rogers let out a long breath as he watched the sunset through the vast wall of glass. The sky was painted in streaks of pinks and purple against the back drop of New York which lay beneath the might of Stark's tower. The main living room had been transformed for the looming party, taking modern chic and replacing it with ghoulish decorations and Stark opulence.

Parties weren't exactly his comfort zone to begin with but adding a costume to the mix wasn't helping. He was rather relieved when he found the box in front of his door that afternoon containing everything he needed to dress up, even if he wasn't quite onboard with the outfit.

He ran his hand over the fake hair he spent all afternoon gluing to his face. A simple white sheet with the eyes cut out would have been his default, even if Tony had vetoed the idea earlier in the week when Steve had proclaimed that that would be the extent of his participation in the whole costume portion of the night. He supposed the painful detail in the werewolf costume was Stark's way at getting back at him for lack of imagination.

He turned around to see find Bruce wandering into the room and looked his costume sceptically. "Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde?"

Banner shrugged. It wasn't his choice of costume but then again it wasn't exactly his choice to go the party to begin with. "Tony has a special sense of humour." Stark had an interesting way of looking at the world that the doctor sometimes envied; other times he feared the fact that he actually found himself on the same wavelength as the inventor in regards to things other than research.

A boisterous clap announced Starks presence, stepping off the elevator with his cape flowing behind. "Clap for the wolf man," declared the vampire, catching his first glimpse of America's champion dressing up in something other than red, white and blue. "Mild mannered turning to something threatening, interesting."

Rogers shifted uncomfortably. A Stark party was always quite the affair, filled with awkward social situations and pop culture reference he had to navigate with varying success. The whole Halloween, trick or treating thing had just started to become common place just as he was too old to participate, and now it seemed that everyone partook in the festivities, including wearing costumes; most of which seemed to be based on cultural references beyond him. If he had to participate, and he would because it was for charity, he was kind of glad Tony sent them all costumes that he stood a chance of recognizing. "And you're Dracula?"

"Well, it is my castle." The billionaire offered his trademark smirk before assessing what Banner had chosen to wear to the party. "That's very on the nose Bruce."

"You picked it," protested Bruce.

Tony frowned. "No I didn't. I only vetoed bad costume ideas, I didn't pick for any of you guys. I didn't even pick for myself."

"Then who..." Banner trailed off as Pepper walked into the room, pulling all of Stark's attention.

"Ah, that doesn't look like the naughty nurse outfit I laid out for you," complained the billionaire.

"Nothing gets past you," retorted Potts.

"Come on Pep," he whined, "get into the spirit of things. It's for charity."

"And last time I checked it was a monster themed party, in which I will be appropriately dressed for within the next hour." She handed Stark a clipboard of papers and a pen, waiting patiently for him to sign off on the last details for the party.

"And who exactly came up with that oppressive theme?" asked Tony, scribbling his signature across the stack of papers.

Pepper smiled. "Someone who has little interest in seeing a parade of scantily clad bunnies follow you around all night." She tucked the clipboard under her arm as Tony handed it back. Glancing at her watch, she mentally recalculated everything she had to do before the guests started to arrive. "Bruce, Steve, you guys look very nice. I'm glad you picked out something that worked for you," she called out before disappearing down the hall, the sharp click of her heels announcing her departure.

"Well what do you say we get this party started early," declared Tony, making his way to the bar to pour himself a drink.

"Where's the rest of the team?" asked Steve, declining the bottle of beer Stark slid across the bar counter.

"Natasha's still getting dressed," offered Bruce taking a seat beside Steve.

"And I saw Barton skulking around here earlier. I think he's still complaining about having to dress up as something supernatural," added the billionaire.

"And Thor..." began Rogers.

"Requires a valiant steed!" declared the god, triumphantly entering the room.

"You know you not having a horse isn't going to confuse people. They'll get you're the Headless Horseman," informed Tony.

"Would it not provide validity to my portrayal?" questioned Thor.

Tony took a long sip from his drink. "Yeah, no one's going for realism tonight, though I do have plans to _really_ suck on Pepper's neck later. I will give you bonus points if you can convince Steve to howl at the moon later."

"That's more information than we wanted," mumbled Bruce taking a small sip of his drink.

"Sir, your guests are starting to arrive," informed the AI.

"Show them up JARVIS," replied Tony with controlled enthusiasm.

* * *

"You're oddly into this," muttered Barton, from his sprawled position on Natasha's bed.

She glanced up, catching his reflection in the mirror as she slipped the back on her earring. "Dressing up for Halloween's not that different from our day job. Just have to pretend to be someone else for a couple of hours."

He craned his neck to catch her eyes in the mirror. "And pretend to like Stark's extravagant affairs."

Natasha hummed her agreement, though Clint knew she secretly liked Tony's parties. Natasha never shied away social gatherings; in fact she seemed to flourish in them. A trained assassin and loner and she enjoyed getting to play amongst the people; Barton on the other hand seemed to flounder without a mission objective attached to a large social gathering. Work wasn't a topic he could use as a medium and he wasn't especially thrilled to compare childhood antics. " _Remember how when you needed a real meal after starving for a week and the only way to get money was to take a job killing someone? Good times,"_ never seemed to endear him to regular people. Being someone else seemed to flow easily off Natasha's tongue to the point where Clint was sort of jealous.

His real live recent stint as a ghost didn't help either. His memories of what happened where still a black void but he remembered the emotions; the loneliness, the outsider looking in. The world had continued on without him and it was hard to ignore the months people had on him. It gave him a new appreciation for Steve's plight and had to give the man credit for how well he was doing with a seventy year gap.

"Shouldn't you be getting ready? People are starting to show up."

Raising his wrist he checked the time on his watch. "Stark has a twisted sense of humor, but at least he gave me something that doesn't require a painstaking amount of time. Reaper wouldn't have been my first choice but I can wear something comfortable underneath the bulky cloak." Clint gave an apologetic smirk. Natasha had been working on the makeup portion of her witch costume for the last half hour. "Besides, I'm waiting on you."

"I plan on being fashionably late and it doesn't work as well if we both walk in at the same time. So go get ready and I'll meet you there," insisted Romanoff, taking a little pleasure in Barton's discomfort. The sniper was good in small groups but avoided crowds; an occupational hazard that seemed to trump his early years working the circus chow circuit.

The archer begrudgingly rolled off the bed and meandered towards the door. "If you're not downstairs in an hour, I'm coming to get you, entrance be damned."

* * *

The gentle hum of chatter mixed with the music as guests buzzed around the room catching up on gossip and sampling the impressive spread the catering crew had laid out. Clint stayed near the back leaning against the wall as he waited for Romanoff to make an appearance. Watching people was something he's always been good at; a vicarious way to experience social engagements without having to get his hands dirty. It was a good way to take in a little piece of everything, missing few moments compared to those who were fully engaged in one single moment.

Most people would miss Thor trying his hand at DJing the party at the insistence of the very star struck DJ. The god, though a little awkward at first, seemed to be getting a handle on the equipment and flow to the point where the music was steady enough to keep people on the dance floor. He was just about to make his move at joining the relaxed looking conversation between Coulson, Rogers and Banner, (it wasn't everyday one saw Jack the Ripper, the Wolfman and Dr Jekyll chatting together) when a presence stopped beside him.

"Agent Barton," greeted Fury in his usual bark.

"Director. Here to enjoy the festivities?" asked Barton without glancing over at the man.

"Nick!" called Tony manoeuvring himself through the crowd, his cape flowing behind him like a black shadow. The people parted like the Red Sea, making way for the billionaire then quickly filling in the hole behind him. "Ah Nick, this is a costume party and _that_ looks suspiciously like your everyday wardrobe."

"I didn't come here socially Stark," started Fury.

"Mission?" interrupted Barton, looking a little too hopeful.

"I just dropped by to remind you all to make sure things don't get out of hand," warned Fury, levelling Tony with a serious glare.

"One time!" protested Stark. "We get thrown in jail one time and now we need a babysitter."

Clint smirked. "You've always needed a babysitter Stark."

"And for the record, I'm pretty sure it was Cap that threw the first punch..."

"Excuse me," offered the young woman as she stumbled into Tony, letting her fingers trail across his shoulder.

"... in that situation." His head followed her mesmerizing eyes as she moved past disappearing into the crowd.

Barton frowned at the interaction. He didn't know all of Stark's associates personally, hell the man didn't know most of his 'associates' personally, but the archer had glanced over the guest list and familiarized himself with the names and faces. The costumes made it difficult but not impossible to identify people, but she didn't seem familiar at all. "Check your pockets Stark," he ordered. She had been smooth but Clint was well versed in sleight of hand tactics.

Tony ran his hands over his chest. "No pockets Barton." Before he could ask the archer to explain, Clint was off the wall and moving through the crowd.

"I mean it Stark," warned Fury before moving back towards the elevator.

Tony called after him, "You're not staying?"

"Do I look like I play dress up!" The doors closed, swallowing up the Director.

"It's for charity," huffed Tony. The cleanup of New York had been expensive and having a vast fortune at his disposal had allowed the inventor to help, but the constant parade of bad guys out to test the Avengers' abilities had proven the constant need resources and support with the aftermath. Being on the front lines of destruction had made Stark actually want to take a more active role in a charity to benefit those impacted by their world saving efforts instead of passing the idea off for his employees to carry out.

Clint followed behind the young woman, a stealth shadow through the maze of innocent people there for a good time. She didn't stop to talk to anyone and no one seemed to give her a second glance; a lone wolf surveying the unsuspecting pray. Barton's sharp eyes scrutinized his target. Her half attempt at a zombie costume didn't leave a lot of room for conventional concealed weapons but the biggest threats were the ones that could work with the least. He tried to brush his feeling of unease off as misplaced paranoia, some deep seeded desire to hide behind his SHIELD life as a means to escape this episode of normality. Not burdened with costume weaponry consideration, Clint's hand brushed over the knife tucked safely under his reaper cloak; its weight and shape a reassuring presence.

The woman paused before the stage, watching the DJ instruct Thor on the differences in the speakers behind them. The archer ceased the opportunity to discreetly close the distance between himself and the possible intruder. His hand was just about to clamp down on her shoulder when suddenly there was nothing there to grab but a fistful of fabric. Clint dropped the garment in his hand as all eyes went to the stage.

The woman appeared center stage, no longer in a Halloween costume but dressed in leather and fur; an otherworldly tinge of color to her formerly milky white skin. An evil smirk spread across her face as she addressed the crowd. "You all gathered for a night of tricks and treats but the greatest trick before you is those masquerading as the pillars of truth and justice." She zeroed in on Tony, Phil and Steve who had moved to the center of the room, already putting themselves between the guests and woman on the stage. "You all think you're heroes. That is the real costume. Tonight, no more illusions, you'll all be what you really are; the thing deep down that you pretend doesn't exist," proclaimed the mysterious woman before the room plunged into darkness.


	3. Psycho Killer

**Part 3: Psycho Killer**

Fury stepped off the elevator and proceeded through the empty lobby. Gentle light marked the way to the door leaving the rest of the room in the darkness of night and the invading lights of the passing traffic as it moved beyond the glass walls. He stopped short as the lights blinked off, and the soft hum of the air conditioning system died. "What the hell?" muttered Fury glancing back the way he came. There was no one else in the lobby and the surrounding buildings remained alive with electricity. His hand pressed against the door but it refused to budge without the life flow of power. Technical glitches weren't common place in a Stark finished product like the tower.

"JARVIS!" demanded the Director. There was nothing but silence, leaving an uneasy feeling to brew deep in his gut. His hand automatically sought out his phone, to either tear Stark a new one or order and assault against the building, he hadn't decided yet; the assault could be business for a situation or pleasure for retribution for whatever childish game Tony was trying to play. He was perturbed to find his phone was as dead as everything else.

"Ten minutes, it took them ten minutes to cause a disaster," he muttered to himself. When had babysitting a group of "heroes" become common place? There was always some distant childminding in regards to the billionaire, long before the Avengers were anything more than a pipe dream but the rest were, for the most part, competent functioning adults. At the very least Romanoff and Barton should be counted upon to dull the madness.

Fury was deciding between which would be more extensive to fix, a chair through the window or using a fire extinguisher to propel another object through the lobby and on to freedom, when a sharp scream reached his ears. He turned his head towards the stairwell and on instinct, ran towards the distressed woman.

He took the stairs two at a time, relying on his momentum and muscle memory to navigate the pitch black stair well. Whatever had disrupted the power had affected the emergency backups and independently powered lights. Cautiously, Nick opened the stairwell door to the second floor, unsure what he was going to walk into. The darkness was even more oppressive, setting off his fine tuned sense for trouble. He went from irritation, at what could have been an annoyance from Stark over his lack of costume, to high alert agent in a potentially world ending scenario; something was very wrong in the tower. All the emergency lights had failed to activate on this floor as well; a single window at the end of the corridor providing a solitary shaft of light.

The woman let loose another scream, echoed by the sound of her heals clicking against the tile floor as she drew near, but Fury had yet to lay eyes on her. Gun drawn, Fury stepped into the hall. He clicking sound grew louder as the frantic sobs drew near. The Director edged closer to the junction at the end of the hall and waited at the ready just shy of the corner for whoever was heading his way.

The hysterical woman rounded the corner, letting out another shriek as she found herself staring down the barrel of the Director's gun. She scrambled backwards until her back hit the wall; trembling legs refusing to support her as she sunk down to the floor with a litany of, "Please don't kill me."

Fury turned the corner to see who was chasing her, but the corridor was empty behind her. "I'm _not_ going to kill you," he barked, taking a knee next to the woman. Her formerly white blouse was covered in blood; tattered strips revealing shallow long gashes along her sides. "Tell me what happened."

"There was... he had... please don't kill me," she choked out around sobs.

Fury tilted her mascara stained face up. "You're safe. I need you to calm down and tell me exactly what happened, from the beginning."

Her shoulders shuddered as she tried to catch her breath, her steady stream of tears slowly tapering off. "I forgot to make the extra copies of the quarterly report for the board meeting tomorrow morning. I really need this job and couldn't mess up that bad on my third day so I thought I could slip down to copy while everyone was at the charity event. Make the copies before tomorrow with no one the wiser to my mistake. I was half way through when the lights went out. The emergency lights didn't come on so I stepped out in the hall to try and find a light and he was... oh god." Her eyes started to well up as she fought against the image that would forever be burned in her mind flashed before her eyes.

"What did you see?"

"He killed her. He was standing over the body, knife in hand. And when he saw me, he started to chase me. He was right behind me. Oh god he's going to kill me!"

"Did you see who it was?" asked Nick, trying to gain any intelligence on the situation and the yet to be revealed attacker.

"It was dark, I didn't get a good look but he was wearing a cape." She paused for a moment before whispering, "I think he killed Ms Potts."

Fury didn't have time to process the repercussions of that revelation as a maniacal cackle split the air. He was on his feet in an instant, searching the darkness for the owner of the blood chilling laugh.

A black figure appeared at the far end of the hall. "Come out, come out where ever you are." The statement was punctuated by the shrill creak of a knife being dragged along the wall.

Fury recognized the calm dispassionate voice. His brow wrinkled in disbelief as the figure moved slowly towards them, the shaft of light from the window softening the darkness the figure was shrouded in. "What the hell? Coulson?"

"She's mine boss, you can't have her," replied Coulson with a sick smile like a wolf claiming his pray.

Nick glanced back at the woman trembling at his feet looking for some signs that she was a threat that his best agent needed to take out. "What's going on here, Phil?" he demanded, hoping for some light to be shed on what appeared to be a horrible situation. The steady dripping of blood from one of the knives in Coulson's hand made it hard to interpret things in his friend's favour.

Coulson stood there; there was something wrong about the scene before him but the compulsion to fill his objective was too great. The voice in his head whispered again, "Kill, kill, never stop." The woman at the Director's feet needed to find the sweet release of death upon hid blades. "She's got to die, boss."

Phil shifted from one foot to the other, ready to attack. Fury fired a warning shot that embedded itself in the wall just to the left of his agent's head; just far enough to miss his friend but frighteningly close enough to convey his warning. Coulson didn't so much as flinch and charged forward anyways.

The woman screamed, scrambled to her feet and continued her escape down the hall as her attacker slammed into Fury. The two men landed in a heap on the ground. Knives in hand, Phil tried to drive them deep into Fury's chest but the other man blocked his advancing blows. Nick managed to relieve one blade from Coulson's death grip, sending it clattering down the hall. With one hand firmly around Phil's wrist, he latched onto Phil's collar with the other and slammed the smaller man hard into the wall. "Get it together Phil!" demanded Fury, hoping sense would return to his long time friend before he was forced to do something rash.

The jarring impact loosened Coulson's grip on his other knife enough that when he took another swipe at Fury, the Director easily knocked it out of reach. He looked longingly at the weapon sitting just out of reach, deflating slightly under the oppressive grip pinning him against the wall. The murderous glare slowly faded from his face.

Fury could feel his friend start to sag in his grip as the wild look in his eyes returned to something more familiar. "Coulson?"

"What did I do?" asked Phil, defeat lacing his voice.

Fury didn't loosen his grip. "You tell me. What happened?"

Phil's gaze settled on the discarded knife, his empty hand clenching at his side. "An uninvited guest showed up to the party." He closed his eyes as he tried to replay everything that happened but the illusive memories danced just out of reach. _Kill, kill, never stop_. "Everything went dark and then I don't know... It was like I was on autopilot with this insatiable need to _kill,_ to slice and gut with flourish. And not just anyone...woman."

Fury took a good look at his friend, a man he trusted with his life and who had devoted his to the side of right. There was a sadistic bone in Coulson's body and here he was confessing to succumbing to some dark instinct to kill. "So running around attacking women, not unlike Jack the Ripper," surmised Nick, pointing to the costume Phil had traded in for his usual suit. "Take off that damn costume."

"Can't," confessed Coulson without moving a muscle.

" _Phil_ ," warned the Director. "Take. Off. The. Damn. Costume. Now!" He grabbed Coulson's shirt collar and pulled hard but the fabric didn't budge.

Phil glanced down at his attire as though he was seeing it for the first time. "Dealing with something alien here boss." He looked back towards the discarded knife; its loss was like a knife in his own gut. _Kill, kill, never stop_. "I need that," he pleaded reaching out for the weapon.

"No you don't." The Director shifted to put himself between his friend and the object of his desire, one the man was willing to beg for; a sound Fury rarely heard.

"There's this voice..." _Kill, kill, never stop_. "I don't know that I can..."

"I know you. You can fight this. I need you by my side. Where's the rest of the team?"

"They were upstairs at the party but after the lights went out... I don't know what happened to them. Thor looked like he recognized whoever it was. Everyone was in costume up there, if they're all affected then..."

"We're going to have all sorts of ghosts and monsters to deal with," finished Fury. "We need to establish communication with the outside and get back up."

"Who you gonna call?" asked Coulson with a sheepish smile undeterred by the Director's unimpressed glare.

"I'm going to make my way to the control room and see if I can't restore power. You," snapped Nick, pulling Coulson's attention back from the wayward blade, "are going to see if any of the team is left standing, particularly Thor, and see if you can't find this mystery guest and get them to reverse whatever this is." He swiped up the knife and slipped it into his boot, all too painfully aware of how Coulson's eyes followed.

The voice in Phil's head softened as the blade was tucked out of sight but its loss was keenly felt. He felt slightly more in control of himself as things started to piece themselves together. He swallowed hard. "I think I killed Pepper Potts."

Fury froze. It was a complication that he hadn't expected, and certainly not from Phil. The ramifications if it were true, could tear the team apart, not to mention the personal fallout and impact on the people that knew both Potts and Coulson, particularly one Tony Stark. "Are you sure?"

The agent tried to focus on the finer details of the grizzly scene in his head. It looked like Pepper lying in a pool of blood, knife firmly in his hand but the face of the victim was missing from his memory.

"We'll figure it out later, Phil," suggested Nick, fearing he was going to lose his only ally. "Right now we need to focus on the mission."

A shadowy figure at the end of the hall caught Coulson's attention. It had been standing there, watching them but when Phil tried to focus on it, it disappeared into the shadows. There was something vaguely familiar about the thing haunting the hall. "I think I know where to start looking."


	4. Don't Fear the ReaperSome kind of Monst

**Part 4: Don't Fear the Reaper**

Coulson moved through the darkness trying to catch a glimpse of the dark figure he had seen lurking around the corner of the second floor. There was the feeling that something was around the next corner but he always found himself alone. Alone with the constant voice in his head tempting him to give in and sate its unending hunger for death. _Kill, kill, never stop_.

His hand ineffectually grabbed around the nothingness that was left when Fury relieved him of his blood stained knives. They had parted company almost half an hour ago and still the desire, the _need_ to have them, pulled at Phil unlike anything he had felt before. It took all of his resolve to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to stay on point for the mission tasked to him and not relent and give into what was disturbingly becoming instinct.

A horrific scream herald murder and Coulson had to swallow back a pang of jealously that it wasn't at his hand. The thought sent a shockwave of alarm through him; just how forgone under this supernatural influence was he? Killing had become an unfortunate side effect of the career he had devoted his life to, but he had never enjoyed it. It was a necessary evil and while some were more deserving of such a fate than others, he never revelled in it the way he wanted to now.

A flicker of humanity flashed in Phil; the eerie silence that had settled in the wake of such a violent disruption told him that whatever had transpired was already too late to stop. He had to clamp down on the urge to offer aid anyways. The mission was what was important and the temptation of whatever he would happen upon might be the final shove he needed to tip over his precarious edge of resolve to hold on to his senses then the fates of everyone in the building, possibly the city would be sealed.

"Work smarter, not harder," the agent mumbled to himself. He'd been spending his time chasing the shadow of the Avenger he's been looking for when he already knew where he was likely to find them. Taking a deep breath, he fortified his resolve to not give into the voice.

 _Kill..._

 _kill..._

 _never stop_.

The state of the corpse was nauseating. Phil had seen a lot in his day but the mangled and mauled body before him was something out of a horror movie. It was as if the wild animal that had ripped the poor woman apart had done it out of pleasure and not some animalistic need. The worst part was perhaps the twisted look of fear that would forever be her face.

Coulson waited, his eyes drifting to every point in the room except the body. He was just about to engage in a tactical retreat before the need to engage in his own killing spree became too much, when he finally got a good look at who he'd been waiting for. "Hello Barton."

The figure stopped at the threshold of the room, tilting his head up to look at who addressed him. As he did the black hood shielding his face slipped off revealing a deathly gray pallor. It was like looking at corpse and Coulson had to suppress a shudder at the thought of seeing his friend like that.

"Coulson," acknowledged Clint carefully, his hand tightening around his scythe. He looked from the remains to the man standing behind them, his face a cautious mask of non-expression. "Did you do this?"

Phil felt a pang of sorrow that Barton would ever have to be in a position to ask such a question, let alone come to some sort of conclusion that would lead him to that question. Given the circumstance, it wasn't a hard conclusion to draw. "No."

Clint nodded his head slightly before proceeding to the body as though Phil wasn't even there.

"What are you doing?" asked Coulson, startled.

"My job." It was a robotic answer without any trace of emotion or understanding. It was like watching someone sleep walk through practiced motions.

"Barton stop!" he snapped, the command seeming to penetrate through to some part of his agent that wasn't enthralled in the current morbid game being played out. "Listen Clint, something alien, possibly Asgardian is doing this."

The archer glanced his way, a pleading expression washing over his face before turning his attention back to the corpse. In that moment Phil wasn't sure which was worse, the methodical and blank stare of a tainted blue killer under Loki's thumb or Barton helplessly resigned to going through the motions at the whim of a monster. He reached out and yanked the scythe free of the archer's grip. "Stop it Barton."

The second the staff was out of his possession, Clint sucked in a large ragged breath before collapsing to his knees. The world came back in sharp defined color, everything too clear and loud all at once instead of the numbing haze he had been floating on. The calming waves of compulsion were gone, replaced with a storm of need and, " _Everything you touch, turns to death_ ," wailing in his head.

Coulson threw the staff as though he had been burned. It didn't matter how far it was launched, nothing was going to take away the sickening feeling it left crawling over his skin, like dried blood that was never going to come off. He carefully and slowly kneeled down in front of his friend, his hands resting over Barton's as he tried to pry the younger man's hands away from his ears. "Clint. Clint, listen to me," tried Phil, attempting to override the voices he knew would be screaming in the archer's head. "Whatever you're hearing, ignore it. It doesn't matter. Just listen to my voice. Something is doing this but you're stronger than it. You don't have to do what it says."

The knot of worry eased slightly as Phil managed to lower Barton's hands. "We have a mission, Barton and I need your help," continued Coulson. "Innocent lives are on the line. Now we need to find the rest of the team."

Coulson's words were like a safety line being thrown out to him, something solid and real for Clint to grab onto and pull himself to safety with. It was like a bad dream, flashes of thing that had happened ever since the lights went out; a jumbled mess of images and a completion to...

Clint cleared his throat. "I don't think the team's going to be much help."

Phil smiled with relief. "Maybe, maybe not. But we still have to try."

The archer kept his gaze to the ground. "You don't know what I've done Coulson."

Phil tried to ignore the sinking feeling that was overtaking him. Images of a bloody body at his feet and the constant drip, drip, drip as blood rolled off his knife danced in his peripheral vision. "I think I might have some idea," he confessed. "I killed Ms Potts tonight." The words felt foreign on his tongue and the distance he put between himself and victim by using their less familiar name, didn't seem as far as it used to.

Clint looked up skeptically. "Pepper?"

"Yeah."

"Pepper's dead, but she's not gone. She's a ghost."

* * *

 **Part 5: Some Kind of Monster**

Nick stealthily made his way down the hall. The floor was trashed, shrouded in darkness and teaming with places for the enemy to be lurking but with the elevators out, this was the only access to the private stairwell to the inner workings of Stark Tower. The destruction was reminiscent of the helicarrier after the Hulk's rampage through the belly of the craft and Fury had to clamp down the foreboding feeling that something large and green would be waiting for him behind every corner; the magical freak show was enough to deal with.

He was passing what was formerly a lab, now various sculptures of twisted furniture and drywall chunks when something caught his eye. Shafts of light stabbed through cracks in the wreckage, painting solid bars of light like prison bars through the room isolating a solitary figure; the foreboding feeling crashing through the Director like a tidal wave.

"Doctor Banner," he greeted cautiously, gun firmly in his grip by his side. On top of everything else, a rampaging Hulk wasn't going to help. More than most, the Director believed Bruce could mostly keep a lid on his green alter ego but everyman had their limit and Nick wasn't about to tempt fate.

Bruce just continued to sit on the corner of the desk staring intently at his hands and the empty beaker in his possession.

Fury took a few slow steps into the room, the crunch of debris under his combat boots as he moved. "What happened here Doctor Banner?" The other man continued to give no sign that he was no longer alone in the room. "Bruce."

"I don't know," whispered Bruce. His gaze sharpened on the beaker, as though it held the secrets to the universe.

If not for the dire circumstances, Nick would leave the man to his internal soul searching trance. Out of everyone he encountered tonight, Banner was the only one to look like himself. The Hulk would be a detriment to the situation but the Doctor's brilliance would be an asset to Fury's cause. Short of finding Stark, Banner was the best option for offering some sort of scientific solution or understanding of the situation. "I need your help Banner, but I need to know if you have everything under control."

"Under control?" The terse silence that had been surrounding them was broken by an eerie self-deprecating laugh that broke through Bruce's statuesque stance. "When has anything ever been under control?" His grip tightened on the beaker, pressure building on the glass almost to the point of fracture.

The accusing glare being thrown Fury's way set his finely tuned instincts on alert, his muscles preparing for the split second he might have to take action. With a level and calm voice, so as to not exacerbate the tense situation further, "Did the Hulk do..."

"The Hulk didn't do anything!" shouted Banner, smashing his fist down on the desk. It was an odd display of anger; Bruce so careful to keep his emotions in check that the only time Fury really witnessed any, they were large and green in execution.

Fury raised his free hand in a calming gesture. "Let's just stay calm and figure this out. I have people running around like movie monsters due to some alien influence and I need to contact reinforcements before it spills out onto the street and I need your help."

"My help? There's only one monster here and he isn't green," growled Bruce, a ripple rolling across his face leaving twisted and angry features in its wake. "And if it's not the Hulk, what does that leave exactly?" In an instant he was on his feet charging towards Fury, the wreckage in his path offering no resistance to his rampage.

Fury unloaded his clip at the exposed pipes in the ceiling, raining down a shower of sparks and smoke covering his exit from the lab. Behind him he heard a howl of rage from the enraged man and not a monster who had just lost his prey. He quickly put as much distance between the crashing and thudding behind him as he could, relieved when he finally pushed open the heavy metal door to the secluded stairway. He continued his journey up an endless flight of stairs towards a service consol hoping Coulson was having better luck on his end.


	5. I Put a Spell on You

**Part 6: I Put a Spell on You**

"You're sure?" asked Phil for the tenth time as he and Clint trudged up the stairs.

"Yes." Barton withheld rolling his eyes, instead poured his frustration into ignoring the hypnotic voice pulling at the back of his mind. " _Everything you touch, turns to death_."

"You're certain?" pressed Coulson, unwilling to accept his absolution so easily.

The reaper paused, turning to glare at Coulson. He pointed dramatically at his black cloak for emphasis. "I think if anyone's sure it's going to be me right now. Pepper's a ghost."

"I'm not sure if that makes me feel better or not," Coulson confessed. If something remained of Ms Potts than maybe she could be saved when they righted the whole messed up situation that was plaguing them. It hadn't changed the fact that Phil firmly believed that he was the one that turned her into a ghost, but if Barton's claim was true, he might be able to fix it, to beg her forgiveness for his weakness in succumbing to such twisted temptation.

"After what we've seen tonight, it's hardly the worst thing that's happened." Clint shrugged it off, filing away the horror for a moment when he'd have proper time to drown his nightmares in cheap alcohol. He continued climbing the flight of stairs, painfully aware how the lack of power to the elevators drew out climbing to the various levels and leaving them exposed to the freak show that was currently haunting the tower.

"Stark really needs to start building smaller monuments to his ego," huffed Coulson as they finally reached Natasha's floor.

The archer laughed. "You can't fit an ego that size in anything that doesn't have ten billion stairs." Clint opened the emergency door and glanced around for any threats. There was nothing visible in the moonlight that filled the halls but based on the last three floors they'd checked, that still left a lot of options for some monsters Barton could go his whole life without tangling with again. His horror movie collection was going to get a serious overhaul when this was finished. The zombies and knife wielding clown had given them the biggest run for their money so far.

A harsh howl rang through the air, causing both men's blood to run cold. Coulson swallowed. The monsters were getting worse and neither he nor Barton were in top shape. Backup was quickly becoming more necessary by the ghoul. "I hope we don't have to find out what that is."

"Hopefully we find Natasha here," said Clint leading the sweep through the hall, mindful of not only the weapons that were available on any of the apartment floors such as kitchen knives but the practical armoury he and Romanoff kept hidden within their perspective living spaces.

"If we're even luckier, she won't be affected by whatever's going on." Clint was barely holding on by the tips of his fingers and by Coulson's own admission, he wasn't fairing much better. Without Phil to catch him should he find himself in freefall, Barton desperately needed Romanoff to be the voice of reason, free from any influence. Someone had to hold the pieces together before they all flew apart. She'd done it for him before, hopefully she could do it again.

"When have we ever been that lucky?"

"She hadn't made it to the party when everything went down and she was still getting dressed when I left her tonight. Maybe it skipped her?"

"Maybe," hoped Coulson as they both stopped in front of the closed bedroom door. Neither moved to turn the door handle; the anticipation of what, if anything they might find on the other side bubbling up to the breaking point.

Moment of truth, Barton let out a long breath and grabbed the knob. The door creaked open slowly, pushing back the blackness of the bedroom and letting the night glow of the city spill in. "Natasha?" he called softly.

"Get out."

Clint peered through the dim trying to get a fix on where the almost inaudible reply came from. There was nothing he could find from his vantage point. He glanced back at Phil for reassurance, only to receive a noncommittal shrug. Cautiously he ventured over the threshold. "Natasha, we need your help."

The candles on the dresser erupted with foot high flames freeing the room of shadow. Before his eyes could even adjust to the change, Romanoff was next to him. "I said, get out!" Her declaration was emphasised as the archer went sailing though the air to slam into the wall on the other side of the room with no more effort on Natasha's part other than a snap of her wrist.

Coulson brought his hands up in surrender as she turned her hard glare on him. With every step forward she took, he took one back until his back pressed up against the closet door. "We can talk about this Natasha." Containment options were limited and rendering her unconscious would be counterproductive to their cause. Based on what she just did to Barton, talking her down would take too long in the face of such power. "There's something control you, all of us."

She leaned in, broomstick firmly in hand pressing hard against Phil's neck, not only holding him in place but quickly cutting off his air supply. "Leave me alone!" she screamed caught somewhere between and command and a desperate plea.

Clint shook his head in a futile effort to get the room to stop spinning. He stumbled to his feet and making his current lack of coordination work for him, tumbled hard in to Natasha. The force of the impact loosened her hold on Coulson allowing the man to sink to his knees panting.

She and Barton rolled across the ground, bucking for top position in a fight no one was going to win. When he changed tactics, and placed both hands on her broom rather than trying to deliver a decisive hit, her anger flared to a greater level. Clint felt them shift from a prone position to standing and remained helpless as his feet left the ground. He tried to pry her hand free from around his neck but her fingers wouldn't budge.

As his hands fell to his side and the darkness of the room filled his vision, there was a small flicker of remorse in her emerald green eyes. The feeling of weightlessness that had been claiming his body shifted to motion as he felt himself in freefall for the second time since entering the room.

With one large sweeping motion of her hand, both Coulson and Barton were propelled out of the room, landing in an undignified heap. The bedroom door slammed hard behind them causing the walls to shake; the ominous smashing of the pictures in the nearby living as they fell off the walls signifying their _discussion_ was over.

"Stay away from me," she screamed through the door before crawling back to the corner she had been hiding in. She listened to the sound of their retreating footsteps move further and further away. It was better that way she thought, the voice was right, _"Your trickery and lies will destroy those closest to you."_


	6. Werewolves of London

**Part 7: Werewolves of London**

"Well that went well," huffed Phil, as he and Barton staggered off of Natasha's floor; his hand firmly wrapped around the archer's bicep to help support him in their tactical retreat. They stopped when they hit the next floor, Phil having faired slight better than Clint in their magical tango with the Black Widow.

"We're really batting a thousand tonight," snarled Clint, gratefully sinking down on the bench next to the elevator. He glanced down the foyer to Thor's apartment door. The god had ass kicking powers to begin with, he wasn't looking forward to seeing what enhancements he received during the monster mayhem. "Could have really used Natasha's witch powers. She would have been a one woman army for us, more so than usual."

Coulson tipped Clint's head back to get a better look at dark bruises forming on his throat. "Speaking of one person armies, I haven't seen any sign of the Hulk." The Hulk, if he was in the mood to cooperate, could possibly be useful, however the Hulk under the influence of an otherworldly being would be more hazardous than anything else they ran into tonight.

"I don't think he's someone we want around right now; trapped in the tower surrounded by a horror show. We brought enough of our own inner monsters to the party, don't need a living breathing one. But if he is around, I hope he's stepping on those zombie fuckers on the fortieth floor.

The small howl that had been trailing them for the last fifteen floors rang though the stairwell. "What the hell is that?" sighed Barton, feeling completely naked and unprepared without his usual tactical gear and bow.

Phil pulled the archer to his feet. "Let's not find out." He had just pushed the door open to Thor's apartment when the stairwell door slammed against the wall with tremendous force. Coulson turned his head just in time to see teeth and claws flying towards them. The world froze as bright streaks of red christened the walls and the muscles in Barton's arm went lax. The archer's hand went to his throat, blood pouring over his fingers and spraying onto Coulson as he sunk to the ground. A wall of fur slammed into Coulson knocking him off his feet and through the door.

He scrambled to his feet, delivering a hard kick to its snout, allowing Phil to get ahead of the snarling and smashing of teeth that were coming up behind him. He ran through the kitchen and living room, beast hot on his heels. As he turned the corner to the hall way he caught a glimpse of the creature: a massive wolf with gnarled features that took on a distinctly more human quality as it passed through the shadows that fell between the living room windows; the more animalistic wolf features taking over in direct moon light. "Captain Rogers?"

The beast gave no sign of stopping, tearing after Phil into the bedroom. As the werewolf burst into the bedroom Phil slipped out from behind the door, pulling it tight as he jumped back out in the hall. He could hear the howls of rage from within as the reinforced door started to take an assault. The door wasn't going to withstand the animal locked within for very long and Coulson back tracked towards Barton.

The foyer was home to an ever expanding puddle of blood, deep crimson flowing from the gaping gash at Clint's throat. Phil's stomach rolled at the sight. The archer's eyes were lifelessly fixed on the floor, his fingers lax around his throat in a vain attempt to stanch the bleeding. Coulson firmly ignored the coolness of his skin as he hooked his hands under Barton's arms and dragged him into the kitchen. Clint wasn't dead, he couldn't be.

The sound of drywall crumbling and metal twisting drew Phil's attention. He fumbled through drawers and cupboards looking for anything he could use as a weapon. He needed something to at least deter the beast if he was going to offer any aid to Clint, who he desperately prayed wasn't as bad off as he imagined. No, Phil couldn't spare a moment to contemplate the very real and likely possibility that Clint was dead, even if there was no rise or fall to the archer's chest. Finding nothing that would be effective, he took a deep breath; he needed a plan.

The silver doors of the elevator caught his attention. While the elevators themselves weren't working with the power out, the shaft could still be of use. Grabbing the broom from the corner he ran back into the foyer. Prying the doors open he wedged the broom between the doors to keep the safety mechanism to protect people from the open shaft from forcing them closed. He looked down the shaft, reinforced glass on three sides giving an amazing view of the city and the metal face of the building on the inside; five floors down the stationary elevator car. Steve could survive a five floor drop and it would keep his new alter ego contained for a bit.

The floor was suddenly too quiet. With his heart pounding harshly in his chest, Coulson slowly moved back towards the kitchen; senses on high alert for the werewolf to make another sneak attack. The wolf was looming over Barton's prone form, spit hanging from exposed razor sharp teeth as his snout hovered mere inches from his victim's face.

"Hey!" shouted Phil, pulling its attention away from his friend.

The werewolf let out a predatory growl before giving chase to its prey. Coulson ran back towards the elevator leaping to grab the molded overhang in front of the doors and pulling himself towards the ceiling. The wolf recognized the drop too late, nails trying desperately to tear purchase into the tile floor to stop its uncontrolled forward momentum. It crashed into the broom as it toppled over the edge, letting out a desperate whine as it tumbled down. The doors, free of their barrier slid close, sealing the creature within the shaft as Coulson dropped back to the ground. "Sorry Captain Rogers, I'll have to work on house breaking you later."

His attention fell back to Thor's apartment and with grim determination he forced himself to go back and face the awful truth. He kneeled next to the body offering a silent prayer as he fought to hold back his tears. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. He suddenly felt so very exhausted. More than a decade working together to keep each other safe and protect the world and this is where he failed. He closed his eyes, desperately trying to push his emotions aside into the black box in his mind where he could rise above personal anguish and complete the mission, because the mission was all he had left.

He startled when he heard Barton take a shallow breath and watched with sick fascination as the skin around the wound slowly started to weave itself together. He wasn't sure if he should be relieved at the turn of events or horrified at the capabilities of the magic controlling them.

Clint tensed before shooting up into a sitting position, his hand frantically pawing at his neck.

"Are you alright?" asked Coulson.

The archer's frantic eyes fell on his friend begging for the answer to the question he had been asked. "What happened?" he rasped, his voice feeling like he's swallowed rocks.

"I thought you were dead. I think you were. Rogers ripped your throat out but you healed yourself." It wasn't a thorough explanation but he was still trying to make sense of what had happened.

" _Everything you touch, turns to death_."

"I guess you can't kill death," offered Clint, the words echoing in his head. His life was filled with near misses, while those around him seemed to suffer the consequences. "What happened to Steve?" he asked, unsure he wanted to know the answer. He was pretty sure he was the only one currently running around as a reaper leaving others vulnerable.

Phil tipped his head towards the foyer. "Elevator shaft."

The archer got to his feet with Coulson's help. "That's different."

"But effective. Come on, we need to keep searching."

"I'm not sure I want to find anyone else," complained Barton, following Coulson to the stairwell. They were running out of teammate that might be able to help.


End file.
